


Count to Ten

by SecretShadowDust



Category: Hat Films - Fandom, Hatfilms, The Yogscast
Genre: Anger, Anger Management, Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Coping, Depression, Future Relationships, Mental Health disorders, Sad, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 02:55:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11546013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretShadowDust/pseuds/SecretShadowDust
Summary: They told them to count to ten, they said that it would help, (sometimes).Smith's anger, Ross' anxiety, Trott's depression - just count to ten on your fingers, breathe, as if it's as easy as that.





	Count to Ten

**Author's Note:**

> This is a weird mix between a short story and a sort of poem, the style is very strange but is something I always fin interesting.  
> I can't seem to write anything but angst, so... enjoy!

Smith’s counselor always tells him to count to ten if he feels angry, like he could explode at any moment. She says it will help him calm down, it’s meant to help – it doesn’t always.

Ross’ therapist always tells him to count to ten if he feels anxious, like he might panic at any moment. She says it will help him center himself, it’s meant to help – it doesn’t always.

Trott’s psychiatrist always tells him to count to ten if he feels the urge, like he needs to escape from the world, permanently. He says it will help him bring himself back to reality, it’s meant to help – it doesn’t always. 

Smith takes a breath.

He pushes his hands through his hair and stares transfixed at the broken figurine on the floor, his favorite. He swallows tightly, shoving back the ticking bomb and counts.  
“One,” Barely a whisper.

Ross takes a breath.

He rubs his sweaty palms on his jeans, frozen in place just inside the crowd, someone accidently hits his shoulder. He swallows tightly, trying to overcome the feeling of suffocating and keeps counting.

“Two,” just a breath.

Trott takes a breath. 

He takes a breath and clenches his fists, the angry current of the river churns beneath his feet, just over the edge of the bridge. He swallows tightly, shifting nervously behind the handrail and breathing out the numbers.

“Three,” drowned out by the sound of the river.

Smith closes his eyes.

The dry wall breaks easily around his fist, a shard cuts a red line across the back of his hand as he shouts at nothing in particular. His fingers tremble, a dark anger rises in his chest and he hits the wall again.

“Four,” shouted into nothing.

Ross closes his eyes.

The room is empty, he’s alone, and a fist seizes his heart and twists until he can’t think, until he collapses. His fingers tremble, an invisible hand grips his throat and prevents him from breathing.

“Five,” gasped into silence.

Trot closes his eyes.

The people around him laugh together, they’re happy, like he’s supposed to be; he tries to smile with them. His fingers tremble, a void opens beneath his shoes and swallows the light of the party, leaving him in darkness.

“Six,” quieter than a breath. 

Smith puts his head in his hands.

Blood drips from the broken skin over his knuckles and the cuts on his hands, air leaves his lungs like breaths of angry fire - He feels sick. A hand rests on his shoulder and someone whispers into his ear stroking patterns into his spine.

“Seven,” they say together.

Ross puts his head in his hands.

Sweat collects on his brow and slips down the bridge of his nose, his hands are shaking and his breath comes too quickly – He feels sick. A key turns in the lock of his apartment and the door swings open, someone sits beside him.

“Eight,” he chokes into their shoulder. 

Trott puts his head in his hands.

Tears slip down his cheeks and drip off of his chin, he takes a shaky breath and presses his fingers against his temple – he feels sick. Someone knocks on the door, he doesn’t move to answer it and they don’t knock again.

“Nine,” he counts it out on shaking fingers.

They all take a breath. 

Smith cleans the blood off of his skin and bandages his cuts. He makes a list of things he needs to fix the holes.

Ross takes a shower and puts on fresh pajamas. He sits down on his couch and watches a movie curled up in a blanket. 

Trott washes his face and makes himself a cup of tea. He lies down in bed and reads a book he’s read numerous times before.

“Ten,” they count together.

It doesn’t always work, doesn’t always help, but sometimes it does and maybe sometimes is better than nothing, so they count to ten.

**Author's Note:**

> I think that all three of them would eventually meet at a group counseling session or something and slowly come together. I like to think that they would fall in love and slowly help each other heal/cope.
> 
> If you guys like it and I'm feeling inspired I might try and write it!


End file.
